A figure broke free from the glittering dance floor and leaned against the wall, tugging at his tie. He took a few steps forward, then slid down against the wall and sat there like a complete drunk, as though he planned to spend the whole absurd, decadent night that way.
"Hey, are you okay?" a woman's voice sounded above him. She said, "Don't sit here. Let's go over there."
She helped him to his feet and led him to a sofa nearby. Under the dim light above the seats, she studied the man.
A few strands of his black hair had fallen messily over his face. He had deep-set eye sockets and a high nose bridge, long straight eyelashes like arrows, and tightly pressed lips with little color.
He won't have blue eyes, the woman thought. That would be too gaudy. Either brown or gray—that would be right.
"Are you okay? You're far too drunk. Tell me your address, and I'll take you home."
He shook his head, but still pulled a business card from his suit pocket. The woman glanced at it, raised her brows, and said, "You're British? Good Lord, how did you even find this place? All right, which hotel are you staying at? Luthor Hotel, I suppose?"
He seemed to nod. The woman sighed, took out her phone and called for a car. She helped him out of the bar and into the vehicle, then thought for a moment before sending the driver away and taking the wheel herself.
"How did you end up here? Here on business?"
"No. Looking for something."
"Looking for something? What?"
"The royal family lost an antique. It seems it was brought to the United States. They sent me to look for it."
"That's bizarre. It sounds like a movie." Her